


raise your rifles to the sky, boys

by crickets



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets





	raise your rifles to the sky, boys

**ONE**

Walt reminds him of his little brother.

Nevermind that Brad doesn't technically have a brother.

For as long as he can remember, he used to make up stories about his family; _his real family_. In these adolescent fantasies, he has a kid brother who is always following him around like a little shadow; always doing what he does, always getting hurt too, skinned knees, bee stings, a broken arm once from falling out of a tree. And Brad is always there, always the one to help him, to make the bad things go away.

Anyway, for some reason, he finds himself looking at Walt like the imaginary kid brother he never had and.. to tell the truth? It starts to get to him.

He snaps at him once.

He catches Walt staring out into the dark when he's supposed to be getting some rack time and his brain says, _Penny for your thoughts, little brother?_ but his mouth says: "Hasser, close your fucking eyes. We're Oscar Mike at oh dark thirty. I need you awake, alert, and rested, not chewing Ripped Fuel and drooling on yourself like Person over here."

"Damn straight," Ray mutters from his spot on the ground.

Walt stretches his leg to kick the pack that Ray leans against, shoving him hard once, before finding Brad's eyes in the dark. "Copy that," he says, turning over on his side and propping his arms under his head.

 _Brad watches him until he falls asleep_.

 

 

**TWO**

Sometimes, Walt thinks that maybe Brad Colbert is the only motherfucker in this whole god-forsaken war that knows a damn thing.

He watches Brad dig a hole, the muscles on his back sheen with sweat, his movements precise, measured, purposeful.

_Walt closes his eyes._

Then, he hears the clang of a shovel being tossed to the ground at his feet.

"Don't just stand there, Hasser," Brad says. "Dig in."

 

 

**THREE**

One night, Brad finds himself hard at the thought of Walt tugging one off back at Matilda.

He'd walked in on him once, his cock hard in his hand, his mouth open just so, his eyes shut tight as he came.

Brad lets his hand slide over his fly, exhaling sharply.

"I'm taking a shit," he says to nobody in particular, grabs a copy of Maxim from the dash and finds a relatively private spot to have himself a good old fashioned combat jack. Except, it's not J-Lo or Jessica Alba or whoever the fuck graces the glossy pages that flashes across his eyes as he comes; It's Walt motherfucking Hasser.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself. _This is going to be a problem._

 

 

**FOUR**

_They don't say goodbye_.

Walt looks for him, but by the time his ride is pulling out, Brad is nowhere to be found.

 

 

 

 

Brad is watching from a distance, sees Walt stand there an extra minute or two, scanning his surroundings.

 _Get in the goddamn vehicle, Hasser_ , he thinks.

No, there will be no tearful goodbyes for them, no awkward pat on the back. It's been hard enough ever since that day in the street to keep himself from sheltering the kid at every turn. And sure, he thinks of him as a kid, but Walt is one of the finest marines he's ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside and that's the truth of the matter. Walt can take care of himself. No matter what Brad thinks. Even though he still gets this faraway look in his eyes and Brad's not sure that he's ever going to be able to forgive himself for what he's done.

_What they've done._

And the ugly truth is that when Brad sees that look, that hesitation, that heavy burden that Walt carries with him every day, he wonders whether he'll ever be able to forgive _himself_ too.


End file.
